The thin one is the most arrogant. Sips light beer from a fluted bottle, full lips curved like sickle earrings. He fears the weight pushing against him, the selves he’s lost. He won’t speak to the fat Jeffs. He glares at those who eat peanuts from the communal bowl. Soldier me is stiff, full of pride: he remembers toy guns, Dollar Store AK-47s I spray painted with my best friend Vince in the backyard the summer we watched Red Dawn. Bourbon for this man, neat, straight up. Thrice married me parodies me with his ill-fitting paisley suit & green suspenders. He turns up Martinis (really? Martinis?) like tiny glass umbrellas. All the Jeffs sit at the bar, though—they’ve seen the same movies, know the same moves. Practice careful sneers & stiff-lip leers. Train their eyes on the mirror behind the bar & count bottles to make the time pass. Only I speak doppelgänger. Only I know the loneliness of the loneliest, the Jeff no one approaches. This is the Jeff who died too young, who sits, askance, amazed at the words, spicy, sweet on his tongue.